


Accidentally In Love

by Jenwryn



Category: Death Note
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-25
Updated: 2009-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-05 06:32:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks he might have to adjust his classification.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accidentally In Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rubbersoul1967](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=rubbersoul1967).



Near brushes his fringe from his eyes, thinks – not for the first time – that he really ought to ask Rester for a haircut, then gazes intently at Stephen Loud's fingers. The agent has particularly lovely fingers. He played the piano as a child, Near knows, simply because there is little that Near _doesn't_ know, when it comes to those who work for him. Perhaps more importantly, though, the agent and the detective have been working together long enough for Near to have grown accustomed to the way that his brain seems determined to describe those fingers with adjectives such as _beautiful_. _Slender_ works as well, as do _clever_, _deft_ and _I wonder what they would feel like_. Near hasn't quite decided what it is about the agent's hands, in particular, that makes him think _exactly_ these things, but he's also content enough within his own skin to know what they mean, and to accept it. Possibly despite popular belief, Near knows what love is. He remembers love in his mother's eyes, love in a voice behind a computer screen; love in the way that a blond and a redhead had teased and had humoured him. He knows the complexities of love, knows how the chemicals function, knows the difference between past loves and this particular case, and he also knows that there's nothing unusual – demographically less likely, perhaps, but not unusual – about experiencing such a feeling in relation to a man.

What he doesn't understand is the way that the feeling lingers, even after he's recognised it, defined it, classified it as harmless-but-possibly-distracting.

He thinks he might have to adjust his classification.

Stephen's fingers work slowly, carefully; the tiny sails of a tiny boat coming to life beneath his touch. Light shines off a bottle, waiting by one corner of the table, for when the project is closer to completion. There's a chess board at the other corner, from the game Near had been playing against himself, but which has lost appeal in comparison to watching Stephen work.

Near is quite certain that his agent has been aware of his watching, since the moment he'd begun. Still, Stephen finishes the main mast before he puts it down, and looks up. "We could do something together, if you'd like," he suggests, a smile in his eyes.

The moment pulls around Near. He knows he could suggest something work-related, now. He knows that he could make some comment, which would remind Stephen who he is, would remind him that Near is the boss. Remind Stephen, perhaps, that Near is surely a child in the agent's eyes. Near has considered the matter in front of his bathroom mirror, harsh light glinting whitely off the bones in his cheeks, and he believes that that is how it must seem; childlike, though his passport says otherwise; though he doesn't feel it himself. And so those are the things he could do, he's certain of them, certain of the options that play around him in space and time but – somehow. Somehow, he doesn't want to. Instead, he wants to sit here and invite Stephen to play chess with him; instead, he wants to keep him close just a little longer, wants to sink into the security of his company, wants to watch Stephen's hands until he no longer can.

Instead, he says, “May I... touch?”

And Stephen looks at him, curious, like a moth fully conscious of the dangers of playing with open flames.

And he knows, it's clear, that Near isn't asking about the boat.

Somewhere, a telephone rings. Somewhere, Halle's voice answers.

Here, Stephen stays very still, and very silent, and then he nods, just once.

Near stands up and walks around to him; stands there, dumbly, then places a thumb against Stephen's open palm. Near wonders whether he really hears Stephen's breath catch, as he traces his finger along the lines that mark Stephen's skin, or whether it's some form of romantic psychosomatics. Imagined or otherwise, it makes his stomach dip and tremble. Stephen keeps his hand steady against the table, and Near wonders if it really bothers him that little, to be touched, like this, to have Near marking little pictures against his skin, while Near is finding it strangely hard to keep upright without leaning against the table for support. He reminds himself about chemicals and imbalances and all the reasons why he knows better than to be doing this; all the reasons why he should turn around and leave now, should go and talk to Rester about getting his hair cut, not—

—not do this.

Near doesn't even know exactly what _this_ is, though, and perhaps that's the root of the problem. Because he's a Wammy's Boy, with his white clothes and his rubber ducks and the vaguely amused silence he casts upon most of the world, and he has this hunger for the sheer act of knowing.

And he's never been looked at, the way that Stephen is looking at him now.

Near tries to let his face express all the things that he's thinking inside, and he wonders whether the message can actually be passed like this, because saying it out-loud would make him vulnerable, and he's L; he can't be vulnerable.

Stephen closes his fingers around Near's hand, closes his fingers and holds on warmly. He reaches his other hand out and brushes Near's hair from his face, taking a curl in his hand, twining it, then tucking it behind Near's ear.

Near's whole body shakes, a shiver running upwards, from somewhere behind his knees, and right down into the hand that Stephen is holding.

Any thought, of being anything but vulnerable, flies from the realm of possibility.

Stephen begins to smile. Cautious, doubtful, wondering, but a smile. “Ah,” he says, and it's strange how much sense an illogical sound can make.

“Teach me how to make ships in bottles,” Near says, because he has to say something. Because he can't just stand here, with his hand in Stephen's, with Stephen touching his hair, with what has to be a silly smile upon his face. A silly smile, which he can't get rid of, even if he wanted to, and he isn't sure he actually does.

“Of course,” says Stephen instantly. He withdraws his hand and lets go of Near's. Near feels an ache in his stomach, at the way that Stephen's eyes go immediately back to the work at hand.

Near, unexpectedly, finds himself dithering.

He licks at the back of his mouth with his tongue, because it seems to have gone dry. Damn chemicals, damn his body.

“Is there room on your chair for me...?” he asks, so quietly that Stephen can pretend he hasn't heard, if Stephen wants to; then rush-adds, “It would be easiest to watch, from your perspective.”

And Stephen pauses, brow creased, then meets Near's eyes properly.

And Near thinks that this time he's really managed it; this time he's said what he wants to say, and the heat of it tugs at his ribcage. He doesn't even mind if his cheeks go pink, when Stephen pushes his chair back and lets Near slip into the space he makes.

And, when Near has learnt the basics of how ships are built, and Stephen leans his face into Near's hair, and whispers things that Near doesn't believe even chemicals can explain, Near decides that maybe love isn't even remotely harmless, and maybe it is very distracting, but maybe it's worth it.

He also decides he's not getting his hair cut. At least, not yet.

Stephen's fingers are much too lovely amongst it.


End file.
